StoriesBlog His phone buzzed again. This time it was a text from an unknown number, but he recognized Mazza’s style. Contact initiated. Cameras rolling. The trap is sprung.
Across town, in room 1842 of the Whitmore Hotel—the same room where Tristan’s world had shattered a month ago—Colette Valentine smiled at the man she believed was Matthew Olsen, Tech CEO, “mark,” victim. She had no idea she was about to meet FBI agents instead.
The call came at 9:47 PM. Not from the police, but from a number Tristan didn’t recognize. He excused himself from the table; they had just ordered dessert. He stepped outside the restaurant into the cool evening air.
“Mr. Valentine? This is Stacey Higgins from Bridges Strategic Communications. I’m calling on behalf of Lenore Bridges. We understand your wife has been detained by police this evening, and Ms. Bridges wanted to ensure you have proper legal representation…”
Tristan ended the call mid-sentence. So the syndicate was already in damage control mode, trying to manage the fallout, protect their network. Too late.
His phone rang again immediately. This time it was Detective Morales.
“It’s done,” she said, and he could hear the satisfaction in her voice. “We have Colette, Lenore Bridges, Carrie Carroll, and Quentin Solomon in custody. The FBI picked up three more associates at secondary locations. The entire operation is shut down.”
“What did Colette do when she realized?”
“Tried to run. Made it to the stairwell before agents cut her off. She’s claiming entrapment, coercion, everything her lawyer can think of. But we have her on video attempting to drug Agent Olsen’s drink. We have the recordings from her meetings. We have financial records showing two million in payments. She’s done, Mr. Valentine. They all are.”
Tristan closed his eyes, feeling something unclench in his chest. Relief. Vindication. And something darker—satisfaction at knowing she had been caught in the same kind of trap she had set for so many others.
“What happens now?”
“Arraignment is Monday. Her lawyer will try for bail, but given the flight risk and the severity of charges, I doubt she’ll get it. RICO prosecution is federal, so this moves fast. You should probably stay somewhere else tonight. We’re executing a search warrant on your home within the hour.”
“I’ll go to my brother’s place.”
“And Mr. Valentine… I know this has been hell, but you did the right thing. You probably saved lives.”
After he hung up, Tristan returned to the table where Devin and Eleanor were waiting. They took one look at his face and knew.
“It’s over,” he said simply.
Eleanor reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry you had to go through this.”
But Tristan wasn’t thinking about what he had been through. He was thinking about what came next.
The news broke Sunday morning. “High Society Blackmail Ring Dismantled,” screamed the Tribune headline. Every major outlet picked it up. Photos of Lenore Bridges being led into the federal courthouse in handcuffs. Mugshots of Colette, Carrie, and the others. Details about the victims, the scope of the operation, the millions stolen.
Tristan’s phone didn’t stop ringing. Reporters, distant relatives, former friends wanting the “inside story.” He ignored them all, except for one call from a number he now had memorized: The Cook County Jail.
Colette’s voice was sharp, desperate. “Tris, thank God! You have to help me. This is all a setup. They’re trying to frame me for things I didn’t do. My lawyer says if you testify that I’ve always been honest, that our marriage was real, it could help my case.”
“No.”
Silence. Then, carefully, “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean I’m not going to commit perjury for you, Colette. Our marriage wasn’t real. You’ve been lying to me since the day we met.”
“I… I can explain—”
“I know everything,” Tristan interrupted, his voice calm. “The blackmail. The extortion. The lives you destroyed. I helped the police build their case against you.”
He heard her breath catch. When she spoke again, the desperation was gone, replaced by cold fury. “You did what?”
“Every document I photographed. Every conversation I recorded. Every text message I forwarded to Detective Morales. I gave them everything they needed to take you down.”
“You son of a bitch. You betrayed me!”
“I betrayed you?” Tristan’s laugh was harsh. “You destroyed people for money. Pablo Gates killed himself because of what you did to him. You were going to drug a man and blackmail him for millions. You used our marriage as cover while you committed crimes. And you’re saying I betrayed you?”
“We could have had everything! Do you know how much money I made? We could have lived like—”
“Like criminals? No thanks. I’d rather be poor and honest than rich and corrupt.”
“This is about that self-righteous moral superiority of yours, isn’t it?” she sneered. “You always thought you were better than me because you’re a paramedic, because you ‘save lives.’ Well, guess what? Saving lives doesn’t pay the bills. I was the one keeping us in that townhouse. I was the one buying your clothes, your car, with that ‘blood money.’ “
“Oh, spare me the dramatics,” she continued, venom dripping from every word. “Those men I targeted? They were cheating on their wives anyway. They deserved what they got.”
And there it was. The real Colette. No remorse. No recognition of the pain she had caused. Just justification and contempt.
“I’m filing for divorce,” Tristan said. “My lawyer will send the papers to your lawyer. I’m asking for the townhouse, since you bought it with proceeds from a criminal enterprise. I’m asking that any shared assets be frozen until it’s determined what was purchased with legitimate income versus stolen money. And I’m asking for a restraining order.”
“You can’t do this to me!”
“Already did. The arraignment is tomorrow. Your lawyer said they’re charging you with seventeen counts, including conspiracy, extortion, fraud, and attempted drugging. You’re looking at thirty years, Colette. Maybe more if they tie you to Alexander Clayton’s death.”
Her sharp intake of breath told him that struck home. She had known they reopened that investigation.
“Alexander’s death was an accident,” she hissed.
“Sure it was. Just like our marriage was real. Just like you were going to stop after ‘one more big score.’ You’re a liar and a criminal. And you’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison knowing that I’m the one who put you there.”
He ended the call and blocked the number.
The preliminary hearing was a bloodbath. The federal prosecutors came armed with evidence that painted a picture of a criminal enterprise so sophisticated and cruel that even the judge seemed shaken. Video of Colette attempting to drug Agent Olson’s drink. Recordings of planning meetings where they discussed targeting vulnerable men. Testimony from victims whose lives had been destroyed.
Tristan sat in the gallery, watching his wife—soon to be ex-wife—sit at the defense table in an orange jumpsuit. Her blonde hair was pulled back, her face pale without makeup. She looked small, diminished. Nothing like the confident woman who had kissed him goodbye just two weeks ago.
Lenore Bridges had taken a plea deal, agreeing to testify against the others in exchange for a reduced sentence. Her testimony was devastating.
“Colette was one of our most effective operators,” Lenore said from the witness stand, her voice flat and emotionless. “She had a talent for identifying marks and gaining their trust. The husband… the paramedic marriage… that was actually her idea. She said having a respectable spouse gave her credibility, made her seem ‘safe’ to the men we targeted.”
Tristan felt Devin’s hand on his shoulder. His friend had insisted on coming to the hearing for moral support.
“The marriage was strategic?” the prosecutor asked.
“Everything was strategic. Colette didn’t do anything without calculating the benefit. She married him because it was useful.”
The defense attorney objected, but the damage was done. The jury—this was just a preliminary hearing, but the public had heard it—knew the truth. Tristan Valentine had been a prop in his wife’s criminal enterprise. An unknowing accomplice whose legitimacy she borrowed while destroying lives.
During a recess, a victim approached Tristan in the hallway. Arnaldo Short, the businessman whose bankruptcy and divorce had been mentioned in those first police meetings. He was in his sixties, gray-haired, worn down by the past year.